One Reason Why
by AnabelleG
Summary: A visitor provides a different perspective on the importance of the work that Brennan, Booth and the squints do.


**One Reason Why**

* * *

I died at 7:28 p.m.

And before you start to think that this is some sort of metaphorical death—or that I get some miraculous second chance—don't. I mean dead. A piece of metal through the ribs and cut to the aorta kind of dead.

I died at 7:28 p.m. The last thing I heard was Dusty Springfield coming from the speakers of his car.

The last thing I saw was my own blood in the dirt beside me.

The last thing I thought was that it was such a beautiful red.

All of these years of being so careful. Change the oil every 3000 miles. Make sure not to walk alone at night. Double check to make sure that the stove is off, the curling iron unplugged, and the door locked behind me.

And still, I died. I died three feet from a stop sign on a country road with "Son of a Preacher Man" in my ears, looking at my own blood.

So why am I here, you may ask? That, that I don't know yet.

Apparently, my story begins with my death.

* * *

I saw the two of them arrive in that big shiny black SUV. Weeks of being here, waiting. And now suddenly, I am the belle of the ball. Like I never was when I was alive. Lots of shiny cars with blue and red lights flashing. All here for me.

What's left of me. Moldy bones and leathery bits of skin. A few strands of hair that just make the whole thing so much harder to look at. Not that I had ever been much to look at. But this, this just ticks me off to no end. There's no dignity in this.

For some reason though, these two have my full attention now. Not just because the man is so handsome. Just the type that I always—used to— pine over before I ended up here. Not because the woman is as beautiful as I had always wished I could be flipping through all of those fashion magazines.

No. It is because these two have an intensity surrounding them. Unlike most of the others here, they aren't griping because it is so cold or because we're out in the middle of nowhere. These two have purpose. And now they are looking into the hole in the ground where I have been waiting all this time.

I'm their purpose.

The woman—I hear the man call her Bones, and think for a minute that I was wrong about them. Maybe they aren't taking me seriously. Not if that was some kind of joke. Still, I decide to wait and watch.

The woman, Bones, she reaches down and brushes some of the grit from my skull and stares at me for the longest time.

And the most unexpected thing happens. I see some of my own anger in her eyes. She's just as angry as I am that this is what has become of me.

She looks up at him and says, "This is not right. Not right to be hidden away like this. Left in a grave in the middle of nowhere as if it didn't matter who she was. It's not right, Booth."

He moves down beside her, looking carefully at my bones resting there in my grave. I keep waiting for him to flinch, to be disgusted by what he sees. It never happens though. He simply says, "No. It's not. But we'll do what we can to make it right for her."

I can't help but follow them back to the car. Watch over their shoulders as they sort through the kits and supplies in the back. For the first time, I am not anchored to that one place. The place where I had been left.

These are the ones that are going to make it possible for me leave here for good. I know it. Ironic isn't it? I finally found a prince charming and a fairy princess to rescue me. And I'm already dead.

But you know what? A rescue is a rescue even if you are just a pile of bones. I'll take it. Especially if it means they catch the one that killed me.

* * *

I look so much more…antiseptic. My skeleton laid out on the table like that, like something out of medical textbook.

It makes it at little easier to detach, to be a little less angry.

But not much.

My little entourage from the grave has gotten smaller. All those cars with the sirens and flashing lights went away long ago. Guess their drivers got bored once the excitement of my discovery was over.

The man, Booth, has gone to look through missing persons files. I know I'm probably in there somewhere. So he will be back.

The rest—there are four of them, including this Bones…Brennan—are all hovering over me. These bones have been poked, prodded and examined more in the last hour than the entire time I was alive.

They're using words and discussing things that I don't understand— even with all the books I have stuck my nose in over the years. So, I stand back, watching them instead.

Angela. At first, she seems out of place among the rest. An artist, not a scientist. But she belongs here. And she has more steel in her spine than she let's on. I can tell. She hates being here, seeing what was done to me. But she keeps looking. Keeps drawing. Her…her I could really have liked.

Hodgins. Jack, I think. Intense guy. Never thought someone could be so focused on mold scraped off a bone. But, hey, never thought it would be my bone that it would be scraped from. So who am I to judge?

Zack. Now he's one I haven't quite figured out yet. Except for this, because I've done it too— he watches them. The others. Watches how they act, what they say. Filing it away for when he thinks he should do the same. For some reason that makes me want to just shake him. Tell him to forget the rules and just live dmn it. Before you are bones lying on a table. But I don't think he would get it.

And her. Brennan. Bones. She doesn't waver. Not once. Her focus is on finding out what happened to me. I'm tempted to cheer her on, but don't. Even though she can't hear me, I find myself not wanting to distract her.

She's been wounded, I can tell. For her to care this much about someone she doesn't know, someone without even a face—something happened to her. And as much as I find myself wanting to take that away, I can't. And I won't. Selfish, I know. But you see, it is what is going to drive her into finding out who I am.

I need for someone to know who I am.

* * *

Well, looks like they figured it out. Who I am, that is.

After all that time in that hole, it's a good feeling. Someone knowing who I am.

Which makes me realize that I've never properly introduced myself to you. My name is Olivia Marie Haskell. Libby. That's what the people that I knew called me. Seeing as you are part of that group now, though in a very odd way, I suppose you should call me that. Libby.

So who is Libby? Besides a sad, angry, murdered woman?

I'm probably one of those people that you would have never noticed. Not even once I disappeared.

Really a stereotype actually. The mousy librarian with a Plain-Jane face stuck behind glasses and a book. Barely uttered a peep even to shush the noisy kids that came into the reading room.

Oh, but listen to me now.

Something about being dead just makes me feel free to speak my mind.

Let's see—I live—lived alone in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. No cat though. Now that would have been a little too much of a cliché wouldn't it? A woman in her mid-thirties—well, what do I care—36 years old, living alone with nothing but a cat to talk to.

No real hobbies, other than reading. And watching people. It became easier over time just to watch them. Not to hope, not to try. Just watch. Much less disappointing that way.

Good gravy, I am beginning to make myself sound pretty pathetic aren't I! It wasn't that bad really. I'd made peace with it. A nice quiet life. Until everything happened, of course.

Have to admit though, don't you? Makes you wonder who in the world would kill the quiet, small-town librarian and bury her in a hidden grave.

That, I can't tell you.. That is why I need them to help tell my story.

Oh, well this can't be good. They're going to see my mother now. At least it'll be interesting to see how they handle the old battle-ax.

* * *

Ha! Bet you thought she would be an ugly old hag. And I promise you she is. But only on the inside.

But on the outside, Elizabeth Olivia Haskell is nothing but stunning. Well-groomed, immaculate in her designer suit. Be sure that she is going to cry once they tell her why they are here. Just not enough to smudge her mascara.

See there? What did I tell you?

On the way here, I heard him tell Brennan to be easy in explaining what happened. I couldn't help but share her indignation on that one. Besides, dear old mom can handle it. I say give her all the gory details. Not that it would faze her one bit in the end.

What? Have I crossed a line with you? By not caring how the mother feels about her lost little girl?

Well, let me tell you. I was lost to her a long time ago. Yes, there was a time when I did care. When I really tried. But over time, I found that this way was easier.

It's like this— from the moment of conception I was nothing but a disappointment for Elizabeth. I ruined her figure, you see. Then committed the sin of not being the miniature society debutant she wanted me to be. It was a constant war until I finally escaped to my little apartment and my little job.

Ah, I can see they are starting to get it. Even now, Mother can't resist complaining about how hard she tried to make me special, only to be disappointed time and again. And now to die in such a scandalous manner.

Whew, Ms. Brennan can sure bristle when she gets that feeling about someone, can't she? I swear, I'm liking this woman more and more.

Oops. Looks like we off again. A few minutes with the widow Haskell was apparently more than enough.

* * *

Well, hell's bells. Put these two in a car and they bicker more than a pair of five year olds arguing over a toy!

And we both know what that means, don't we?

Wonder what's holding them back. Surely two people as smart as these two could figure out that they are crazy about each other. Jeez, I am a ghost, or spirit, or whatever and I could see it.

* * *

No, no, no, no. Not here.

I don't want them to see this place. See how I lived. This is private. A home should be private. This isn't fair.

I know. You don't have to say it. Buck up, Libby girl. This stopped being fair when you stopped breathing.

I still don't want them to see. I want their respect. Not their pity.

See, I knew it! Knew this would happen. He's looking all sad seeing the single plate and cup in the sink.

The stack of books sitting next to another stack of books next to my chair.

The quilt tucked neatly over a single twin bed.

He opens the book on the table next to my bed, to the page I had marked, and just stares. I can see. He pities me now. Please don't do that…

Okay. Well, that's unexpected. It's not pity. He's…mad? Because I had a life and it got interrupted. Amazing. He can see the life I built here, not a lonely pathetic woman.

Thank you, Booth.

And now where has Brennan gotten off to?

There she is. I shouldn't be surprised. I should have expected her to be the one to find them. She seems like a woman used to keeping things hidden. My journals, tucked away at the back of my closet. Stacks and stacks of them.

Looks like you may be closer than I thought to getting answers to some of those questions.

* * *

I love this place. There's something about it.

Brennan has really made this her home. Her personality is written all over it. And she has made no apologies for it. Nice.

She and Angela have been hunched over those journals for hours. I was pretty prolific, I suppose.

Still waters run deep or so they say. Whoever "they" are.

I admit I would prefer that Brennan be the only one that reads them. Not that I don't trust Angela. It's just hard having your private thoughts out there for strangers to see. Harder than having them look at your bones. And Brennan….I think Brennan gets it.

She wanted Angela here, to read them too. In case she missed something or didn't understand something I had written.

The woman just doesn't seem to trust her feelings, does she? Second guessing her instincts. Wow, whoever hurt her really did do a number on her, didn't they?

And there you go. She's quit reading and is talking to Angela. About how she wonders if her life parallels the one they are reading about.

Why can't you see it, Brennan? I can. You are not the person I was. You have a built a life.

A friend that cares enough to spend hours helping you read through a dead woman's diaries, because she knows how much it is going to bother you.

A guy head over heels in love with you. That smiles at you like that.

You have a purpose beyond the four walls you live in.

I'm your purpose.

Keep reading. The answer is in that book. I know you'll see it.

Find his name.

* * *

They did find it. His name.

Any second now, they are going to bring Barrett Singletary through that door.

And I will get to face the man that killed me.

I'm not scared. My only concern is that there is not enough of me left to knock the living hell out of him.

There he is. Oh, God, I don't know if I can do this. I didn't think this would hurt so much. It's like feeling what he did all over again.

Oh, sweet Jesus...I can't breathe.

Wait a minute. I can't breathe at all. Dead, remember Libby? And this…this…he's the reason why.

I'm not going to let him take this away from me too. He got everything else. He's not going to rob me of the chance to see him pay.

I want to hear him admit it.

Well, that's a good start, Booth. Calling him Barry. He hates that. Gets under his skin every time. He can't stand the idea of having something as 'common' as a nickname.

I only made that mistake twice. The last time was that night.

No. Please, he didn't kill me because I called him Barry. Good gravy, now that would have been pretty tragic now, wouldn't it?

No, he was well on his way to wanting to do that before I said it.

But I had already decided by that point that I wasn't going to let him do it without a fight. Without knowing that I finally understood what he really was.

Careful, now, Brennan. Don't get too close. I did and look what happened to me.

It is a nice fat ugly scar though, isn't it?

Very pleased with that if I do say so myself. That was my parting shot. My coup-de-grace.

Wonder how old Barry explained that one to Scarlett. Yes, his poor clueless wife is named Scarlett. Bet her mother and mine would get along just famously.

For her sake, I do hope he did a better job lying to his wife than what he is doing now.

Surprising, considering how good the man is at telling lies.

Like that he loved me.

Like he appreciated my quiet steady nature in his chaotic world. Get this—my independence.

Truth was, in fact, that I was convenient and easy. Yes, easy in that sense of the word. At least when it came to him. God, I had been half in love with him since we were in school. Which he knew, of course.

Throw in the fact that I didn't have the type of friends you would spill the beans to.

How was it he put it that night I stopped being so convenient?

Oh, yes. The face he could learn to ignore.

Mercy, did I just get lost on that charming little ride down memory lane or what? And now I've missed something important.

Because Prince Charming and the Fairy Princess have made the Evil Troll turn very red in the face.

Wait, what's this about DNA? I didn't think there….fetal bones?

But she wouldn't have been big enough yet would she? My little baby barely existed. How could they know?

I hadn't told anyone until Barry. That night.

I know, because I was so nervous and excited to tell. I even wrote about it in….my journal!

Of course.

Ah, now I get it. Nice bluff guys. You two should take that act to Vegas. Big bucks for you two at the poker tables.

And it looks like it's working here too, because Barry's got that awful sneer on his face. That self-righteous, my sweat-smells-like-rosewater-look.

Which is also when he tends to stick that custom-made leather loafer right in his mouth.

Come on now, Barrett. Don't let me down.

Yep. Right on cue.

Sounds just like what he spat out at my body when he was busy burying it.

Bet you didn't think I was listening, hmm, Barr?

Heard it all. How he wasn't going to let some pathetic bit on the side ruin his marriage. That he wasn't going to pay child support from the allowance Scarlett's family provided.

That no way would he'd have a kid walking around with my stupid, dumb, cow face.

Mercy me, a girl could get offended all over again.

Except…I think Brennan is taking care of it for me.

I can't believe she actually just hit him. Too sweet. Do it again. One more time. For me.

Bet Booth wouldn't tell on you.

Well, dear, that's okay. You did get the one in.

And I'm sure there will be plenty worse waiting on him where he's headed.

In fact, I imagine it won't be too long and he's going to wish that someone would bury him in a hole in the ground.

Damn, but that feels good.

* * *

Funny. I thought I would be gone by now.

I'm not so angry anymore after all.

Well, maybe a little.

Like Booth said. My life got interrupted. Mine and my baby's.

And Barry was wrong. She was beautiful. And I wouldn't have asked anything of him. I think a part of me already realized what kind of person he was.

I just wanted a chance to love her.

But they made it right. As right as they could.

Which is why I'm still here I guess. Why I've followed them here to a cemetery of all places. Irony still abounds.

Not so fast though. You haven't gotten rid of me quite yet. It's not my headstone she's talking to.

I came here because I wanted to find a way thank her. Thank both of them.

I so wish that I could just reach out to her. Maybe even take away some of that hurt.

Or at the very least give her some cosmic jolt from beyond. Make her see the way that he smiles at her.

Oh, well now I'm embarrassed. Ha! Bet you thought that by this point that wasn't possible.

But it looks as if I'm stepping onto another ghostie's territory. She's got someone else looking out for her. Someone who's been around for awhile.

I can tell this one regrets the hurt she's caused and is doing what she can to make up for it. As best she can from where she's at.

Well, that's it for me then. I'm not really needed here am I?

Maybe I'll go mess around with Mommy Dearest's head a little. Perhaps do something really wicked to her cherished Chanel.

Ha! Ghost humor. You wouldn't get it. Don't worry. The old bat is safe from me.

It really is time for me to go.

Thank you for listening to my story. I know it was probably a little disturbing. A lot maybe? But it means a lot to me that you did.

You see, I died at 7:28 p.m. on a country road with "Son of Preacher Man" in my ears and looking at my own blood. Someone buried me and my baby in a hole in the middle of nowhere.

Those two gave a face.

You gave me a voice.

That means somethi…..


End file.
